Just Give Me a Reason
by ceruleanblues
Summary: He wished that someone had warned him about this, but then that would be a terrible fucking lie.


**A/N: **Hi guys! So, okay, I know some of you are bummed out about Puck/Quinn being the end game in the show, and I had a friend who was really upset about it and requested for a oneshot (with angst and smut) to cheer her up, so here it is!

Enjoy!

xXx  
CeruleanBlues

* * *

**Just Give Me a Reason**

He wished that someone had warned him about this, but then that would be a terrible fucking lie. Now that he was in too deep to even attempt to escape, he couldn't even pretend that he hated every second he had to watch the girl that he was desperately ass-backwards in love with canoodle with Mr. Bad-Guy-Gone-Good, because the twisted fact was, he thrived in knowing that he was her darkest kept secret.

How fucking sick was that?

The cafeteria was a loud mess—this was high school, after all—and it couldn't have been any more stereotypical since he was sitting at a table surrounded by football-playing dudes wearing those standard-issued red-and-white letterman jackets. They were talking obnoxiously in his ears, yammering past his head, but somehow or another it had totally bypassed everybody's attention that he was otherwise preoccupied staring—ogling, shamelessly leering—at their team captain's cheerleader girlfriend.

Quinn Fabray sat primly in Noah Puckerman's lap—spirit colors on and that trademark shining smile on her lips—and playing every bit the doting role in their status quo, but he knew better. Her laughter rang above the chatter, the song of a perfect siren, and he wondered if anybody realized the choreographed show she was always performing.

"Sam? Sam!"

He heaved a sigh before turning to face Mike Chang. "What?"

"We're all hanging out at Breadstix after school," the Asian placekicker said. "You in?"

From the corner of his eye, he caught her listening.

"Sure."

The chatter resumed around him, and quite contentedly, so did his prior activity.

* * *

There was a cryptic note in his locker—it wasn't a surprise, really—and he couldn't hold back the smirk on his face when he read the words. She was always careful not to leave any traces of evidence; a master of disguising her handwriting and using different scraps of paper every single time, but the message was always the same.

He pocketed the piece just as Puck sauntered over.

"Come on, man," he clapped Sam on the shoulder. "The Bieste waits for no one."

* * *

**Right from the start  
****You were a thief  
****You stole my heart  
****And I your willing victim**

After spitting out some lame excuse to leave, he got into that tatty old car of his and sped off down the street he knew he could navigate even in his sleep. It was late—considering it was a school night—but her mom was out of town on church business and he had nowhere else to be. Her bedroom lights were on when everything else weren't, and he remembered to park near the junction and enter through the back gate.

"You're late."

She was perched on the porch steps in nothing but a flimsy top and a pair of shorts, her glare a sharp pierce through his chest, and instantly his mouth ran dry. Her features were shadowed by the night, curtained by her luscious blonde locks, but there was no mistaking the slight crack in her voice.

Fuck.

"I got held up," he told her, still frozen on the spot because he was too afraid to move. "The boys—"

"I don't fucking care, Sam," she snapped, the harshness ripping through the silence. "You should've been here sooner. I needed you."

The cold air pricked his lungs. "Shit, Quinn, I—"

"Just go."

* * *

She ignored him for days after, which drove him mad to his wit's end. Each time she so much as sniffed his mere presence, Puck would make an infamous appearance. They latched onto each other like fucking leeches any chance they could, he figured they were going to give him a permanent migraine. It was ridiculous how fucking unfair it was to punish him over something he had no control over—something so insignificant—until he overheard one Santana Lopez dogging her to the other girls.

Of course.

"Do you have anything better to do than talk shit all day, Santana?"

The co-captain of the squad eyed him with distaste. "You mean better than looking at your trouty mouth?" she retorted. "Fuck off Guppy Lips."

"Look, if you have nothing good to say about anybody, then don't say anything at all."

She arched an eyebrow, folding her arms across her chest. "Why do you care, Evans?"

"Because I lo—"

"Santana," Coach Sylvester called out from the other end of the hallway. "I don't live for you to waste my time. Get your ass in the gym; pronto."

He was safe, at least for now.

* * *

The game was a bit shit; they lost by a full touchdown and everybody was miserable. He didn't think it could get much worse than that, but then again, his life was nothing if not utterly ironic. Trudging off the field, he noticed her—all smiles, a short skirt and a bouncy blonde ponytail—as she skipped towards her boyfriend with a bottle of water in her hand, only to be completely ignored and casted aside. Her gorgeous face fell, defeated, until she glanced over and their gazes met.

He meant to say something—anything—he felt his mouth forming the words, but nothing escaped his throat.

She blinked; and then it was over.

* * *

**I let you see the parts of me  
****That weren't all that pretty  
****And with every touch you fixed them**

They fell into a tangled mess of limbs in the backseat of his car. It was hot and stuffy, the leather sticky against his skin, and the windows were starting to fog up. The parking lot behind the school was a reckless idea; anybody could've seen them—Puck, Santana, Mike—but what the fuck. He'd be damned if he was deprived of her for one second longer.

"Sam…"

Her breath tickled the slope of his neck, low and scratchy, and it got him every single time. His fingers dug into the soft skin of her hips as he drew her impossibly closer. Straining from untempered control, he rutted against her, groaning when she bit into his flesh. He reached for her supple breasts, still encased in a nude-colored cotton bra, and very nearly undid himself in his pants when her dainty, dexterous hand slid lower and brushed against his hardened bulge.

He didn't kiss her—they never did—but that didn't mean he hadn't caught himself imagining how the seams of her lips would taste like on his tongue.

"We shouldn't be doing this," she gasped.

"We shouldn't," he agreed; however as he plunged into her tightness, nothing else mattered.

**Now you've been talking in your sleep, oh, oh  
****Things you never say to me, oh, oh  
****Tell me that you've had enough  
****Of our love, our love**

* * *

Puck was cheating on her, and it should be one fucked-up surprise but Sam reckoned a bit of loyalty was probably too much to ask from his team captain. Still, it was only tactful to not be boning Santana Lopez in the shower stall in the locker room when the odds of getting caught were off the roof. The shadows made it easy to hide, but those primitive moans and grunts were an echoing soundtrack that he wished he could delete.

As stealthily as possible, he slipped out of the door.

She was leaning against the side of her bastard of a boyfriend's pick-up, looking bored and agitated. Her frown only deepened when she saw him approaching.

"He's not coming."

Hurt flashed in those beautiful pools of molten gold, but she nodded.

"Let's go."

* * *

**I'm sorry I don't understand  
****Where all of this is coming from  
****I thought that we were fine  
****(Oh, we had everything)**

He took her to the cliff—rather literally—because it was her favorite spot in the entire state of Ohio. It was a drive away to Toledo, but he'd cross the country if he had to just to see her smile like she did under the dark sky and the splatter of stars. The slight breeze tousled her hair up a bit, and she fussed with it for a while before giving up altogether.

"Why don't you just leave him?"

She scoffed. "You know why."

He regarded her carefully. "No, I don't."

There was a pregnant pause where the quiet blanketed over them, and then she shifted, hugging her knees to her chest as she rubbed her bare arms. Instinctively, he stripped the letterman jacket off him and draped it over her quivering shoulders.

"I can't let her win," she confessed, almost inaudible to his ears.

Quinn drowned in his clothes, but there was something about seeing her in them that sparked a shade of possessiveness that he wasn't aware had been sitting in the depths of his core. She looked better clad in his prized trophy than she ever did in her boyfriend's. It was superficial—the skirts, the jerseys—but it held significance in their bathetic lives, and as ridiculous as the reason was, he understood it perfectly.

"You won't."

She turned to face him. "How do you know that?"

**Your head is running wild again  
****My dear we still have everythin'  
****And it's all in your mind  
****(Yeah, but this is happenin')**

"Because you're Quinn Fabray."

* * *

Mike skidded up to him out of nowhere during fifth period break, panting and flustered, and seriously, the dude was supposed to have the best fucking stamina in the entire team. Sam raised his eyebrows expectantly, waiting for the news to drop.

"Out with it."

"It's Quinn and Santana," he wheezed. "Cat fight in the hallway—"

"Fuck."

He raced down the corridor, bumping and nudging everybody in his way, until he stumbled upon the crowd circle. Jostling past the sea of bodies, he caught the fiery Latina just as she made a lunge for her squad captain, claws blazing. Struggling against his hold, she spat out a string of colorful expletives—both in English and Spanish—her ponytail slapping against his face.

"You're a fucking slut, Santana," Quinn fumed, battling the restrains Puck had around her torso. "You've always been such a jealous bitch, but whoring yourself to my boyfriend isn't going to do you any favors—"

"I'm sorry, was that a pun?" Santana sneered, her tone laced with sarcasm. "Did it occur to you that your precious boyfriend came to me because you weren't satisfying his needs?"

"Fuck you!"

"Quinn…"

Her gaze snapped up to meet his, and in that crazy second, she froze. Santana was squirming and twisting in his arms, threatening him with serious consequences, but she was the least of his priorities. Eyes fixed on the blonde, he wordlessly pleaded with her, provided her with the promise she needed.

She broke free of Puck's hold, then whirled around and slapped him across his cheek.

With a parting glare, she stormed away.

"Get your fishy hands off me, Fat Lips," Santana hissed.

He shoved her away as his team captain seethed on the spot. Quinn's red handprint was a humiliating addition to his face, and Sam was inclined to smirk.

"Fuck you, Puck."

* * *

**You've been havin' real bad dreams, oh, oh  
****You used to lie so close to me, oh, oh  
****There's nothing more than empty sheets  
****Between our love, our love  
****Oh, our love, our love**

She refused to shed a tear over it, and he realized no other girl could be any braver than that. Her flawless white sneakers scuffed against the bleachers as they watched the sunset in companionable stillness. The warmth danced on his skin and bounced off like a picturesque painting on hers.

"I hate him," she murmured. "I hate them both."

He glanced down at her hands, contemplating his next move.

"No, you don't."

A sad smile graced her lips.

"You're right; I don't."

* * *

**Oh, tear ducts and rust  
****I'll fix it for us  
****We're collecting dust  
****But our love's enough**

When she invited him in that night, he reckoned it was the dumbest thing she had done because he wasn't going to be her rebound. They had been everything in the book—mates, fuck buddies, friends with benefits—but they weren't each other's sloppy seconds. Still, as she stood on the porch steps with that look in her hypnotic eyes, he couldn't find it in him to refuse.

Her fingers journeyed downwards, interlacing with his, and before he could make to object, she was tugging him through the threshold. She brought him up to her bedroom—neat and tidy and incredibly organized—and then she was impatiently undressing him, removing articles of clothing as though it was the most important task in the world. He stilled her wrist, just inches from the buckle of his belt, and she gazed up at him through her long lashes.

"You sure?" he asked.

She inhaled a shaky breath. "There's nowhere I'd rather be."

He shook his head. "That's not good enough."

It was a long five seconds before she moved, and then her plump lips were grazing his. The contact sent a shiver zipping down his spine. He pressed on, simple, gentle suctions against her mouth until her tongue darted out to sample his, and all hell broke loose. There was a low sigh—it could be either his or hers—but it was the sweetest sound he had ever heard.

"We don't have to do anything tonight," she told him as their noses bumped in the proximity. "I just need you to hold me."

He nodded.

**You're holding it in  
****You're pouring a drink  
****No nothing is as bad as it seems  
****We'll come clean**

"Okay."

* * *

He didn't know what he had expected, but it definitely wasn't Quinn Fabray sashaying up to him in the middle of a crowded cafeteria and snogging him senseless in front of the entire student body. Vaguely, he heard the immediate buzz of people chattering and speculating, the not-very-hushed gossipmongers, and fuck it all if he didn't enjoy every bit of the attention.

She grinned up at him, glowing in her cheerleader uniform. "Hi."

"Hi."

"Son of a bitch."

There was a sickening crack of bones, and then he was sprawling on the filthy floor with a familiar metallic taste on his tongue. Puck hovered over him, his face pinched with rage, but before he could inflict any further damage, Mr. Schuester had him by the collar of his letterman and was dragging him away.

"To the principal's office you go, Puck."

* * *

**Just give me a reason  
****Just a little bit's enough  
****Just a second we're not broken just bent  
****And we can learn to love again**

She had his head in her lap, a pack of ice held to his jaw. The fingers running through his hair were lulling him to sleep as a contented hum escaped his throat. His face fucking hurt; Puck had quite a fist, and it was going to leave some nasty bruising for days to come.

"I'm sorry."

His eyes snapped open. "What for?"

She gnawed on her bottom lip. "Puckerman."

"Don't," he told her affectionately. "It was just a small price to pay."

"Not at my expense."

The corner of his lips twitched in response.

**It's in the stars  
****It's been written in the scars on our hearts  
****That we're not broken just bent  
****And we can learn to love again**

"It was worth it."

* * *

Santana cornered him at his locker after last period, a murderous glint in her cat-like eyes. He leveled her stare, keeping as calm of a composure as possible, considering shit was about to hit the fan. She was one of those predators who were able to sniff fear in her prey, and he wasn't going to grant her such satisfaction.

"Evans," she bit out.

"Lopez."

"You've been fucking Quinn behind Puck's back while they were still together, haven't you?"

She had always been blunt, but it was something else to have her confront him so forwardly after everything that had happened.

"Listen," he began, slamming the locker door shut. "You and I both know that no matter what I say, you're still going to believe whatever you want to believe, so I'm just going to save myself the trouble."

She jabbed a finger into his chest. "You lying bastard."

He batted her hand away. "Leave me and Quinn alone, okay?"

"You know what; her holier-than-thou façade is such bullshit," the Latina thundered. "She called me a fucking whore when she's no different. I suppose I did Puck—and you—a huge favor by screwing him, didn't I? You were just itching for him to get caught first, well, congratu-fucking-lations because you just won the top prize for the biggest asshole in the entire fucking universe."

"We're all a bunch of selfish motherfuckers, Santana, deal with it."

* * *

**Just give me a reason  
****Just a little bit's enough  
****Just a second we're not broken just bent  
****And we can learn to love again**

She stopped dead in her tracks the instant she saw him. Her features hardened for a fleeting moment before she spun on her heels and hurried off the opposite direction. He went after her, wondering what the fuck what going on, when she screeched to a halt facing her own locker. Scrawled across it were four letters, tagged with black spray paint.

"Shit."

Quinn bristled.

"He knows."

He swallowed the lump lodged in his windpipe. "And how do you feel about that?"

**It's in the stars  
****It's been written in the scars on our hearts  
****That we're not broken just bent  
****And we can learn to love again**

"I don't care."

* * *

He fucked her in the shower stall in the boy's locker room after football practice. It could've been anywhere else; he was beyond caring, but there was something completely and perversely poetic about rechristening the scene of the crime. Besides, the acoustics were brilliant, anyway. Her pleasure-filled cries echoed off the walls in perfect harmony to the wet slapping of naked skin.

"Fuck," he grated out, pounding into her as she bent over, bracing herself against the cool damp tiles. "Fuck, Quinn…"

The main door clicked open, followed by a set of footsteps.

"Shit," she whispered.

He clasped a hand over her mouth, stifling her noises as he continued to piston her with earnest. The scuffing of shoes got louder, but all of a sudden, whoever it was paused. An involuntary whimper slipped from between her lips when he too froze. Keeping his eyes peeled towards the row of lockers, he leaned forward to lick the remnants of their shower between her shoulder blades.

"Sam…"

A head emerged from the corner—that telltale Mohawk—and then he was staring straight at Noah Puckerman.

There was a flicker of recognition in his eyes as he registered the situation. A wave of shame crashed over his stoic features, followed closely by a maelstrom of livid emotions. Satisfied that he had elicited the right reactions out of his team captain, Sam gave a punctuated thrust that left Quinn crying out to the heavens.

"Fuck!"

**Oh, oh, that we're not broken just bent  
****And we can learn to love again**

* * *

**A/N:** The end! Hope this did it for you guys! Also, if any of you have prompts to share, don't hesitate to drop a review or PM me. It's great to work with a variety of ideas; keeps me from writer's block.

Song used: "Just Give Me a Reason" by P!nk feat. Nate Ruess


End file.
